My eyes have wandered over "tragedy landscape."
Cinna has found his way home...and it has been burnt down.
Cinna, dressed in his parka and armed with...
Sarcasm??? No...sarcasm? Not Cinna. Certainly not Cinna.
I was stabbed while I was gone.
Stabbed in a street with no corners by an ignorant mob,
and seemingly upset, it's true I was.
Ask Caesar and Shakespear, in the third Act and Scene, I was.
I, Cinna, have been killed.
I know, I know, so sad...sad...sad.
I saw this home (here, this "www.") through lenses of the rose persuasion.
Dark does not mean sad all the time.
There is no trick to this.
Dark is freedom. Think.
When you step into the lustful light...you cannot see a thing.
When you turn your back. The light becomes a tool.
Think.
Again. Think.
Dark...figure it out.
Are you simple? Is dark cutting your arm?
Are you creative? Is dark drowning the three month old of the hooker your fucking in the ass?
Are you afraid? Is dark your denial?
Are you Lost? Is it dark because your eyes are closed?
I am not cinna the conspirator...I am Cinna the Poet.
Sley me for my bad verses if you must, but I am Cinna the Poet.
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